The inability to rationally evaluate your situation is a result of malnourishment and disturbed brain chemistry.
Neither one of us dares breath, becasue we are both here in the same space and at the same time, Mommy and Lia, no phones or scalpels or burning words. Neither one of us wants to break the spell.
If I tell her about all of my ugliness now, this fragile bridge will crumble under the weight of it.
I believe that you've created a metaphorical universe in which you can express your darkest fears. In one aspect, yes, I believe in ghosts, but we create them. We haunt ourselves, and sometimes we do such a good job, we lose track of reality.
The dead do walk and haunt and cvrawl into your bed at night. Ghosts sneak into your head when you're not looking. Stars line up and volcanoes birth out bits of glass that foretell the future. Poison berries make girls stronger, but sometimes kill them. If you howl at the moon and swear on your blood, anything you desire wil be yours. Be careful what you wish for. There's always a catch.
I live in the borderlands. The word ghost sounds like memory. The word therapy means exorcism. My visions echo and multiplymultiply.
Food is life. And that's the problem. When you're alive, people can hurt you. It's easier to crawl into a bone cage or a snowdrift of confusion. It's easier to lock everybody out.
But it's a lie.
Food is life. This scares me almost to death, but I'm workin gon it. I am beginning to measure myself in strength, not pounds. Sometimes in smiles.
We talk and talk until the dams burst and the tears flow with a little blood, because we're all angry. But nobody storms out of our sessions. Nobody uses nasty names. We take turns shoveling through years of muck. Sometimes I think my skin will burst into flames. I'm angry at them. I'm angry at us. I'm angry that I starved my brain and that I sat shivering in my bed at night instead of dancing or reading poetry or eating ince cream or kissing a boy or maybe a girl with gentle lips and strong hands.
I'm learning how to be angry and sad and lonely and joyful and excited and afraid and happy. I'm learning how to taste everything.
There is no magic cure, no making it all go away forever. There are only small steps upward; an easier day, an unexpected laugh, a mirror that doesn't matter anymore.
I am spinning the silk threads of my story, weaving the fabric of my world. The tiny elf dancer became a wooden doll whose strings were jerked by people not paying attention. I spun out of control. Eating was hard. Breathing was hard. Living was hardest.
I wanted to swallow the bitter seeds of forgetfulness.
Cassie did, too. We learned on each other, lost in the dark and wandering in endless circles. She got too tired and went to sleep. Somehow, I dragged myself out of the dark and asked for help.引自第200页